


A Spoonful of Fucking Sugar Isn't Going to Cut it Here

by hart_and_sole



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, Nanny POV, Vanya ambivalent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart_and_sole/pseuds/hart_and_sole
Summary: Maria's been the nanny to the child who tries to drown himself on a regular basis. She's dealt with it. She's praying she doesn't get reassigned to the child who's got rid of all her other nannies so far.





	A Spoonful of Fucking Sugar Isn't Going to Cut it Here

**Author's Note:**

> Fits in before Real Isn't How You Are Made.

 

Maria sat on the toilet lid, flipping through a magazine and keeping one eye on Number Two as he splashed around happily in the bath. The bathrooms were about the only place in the whole property Mr. Hargreeves wouldn't know what you were doing; thus the only place you could get away with not acting like you were some kind of Mary Poppins understudy.

He was very particular, Mr. Hargreeves. Turn of the century clothing was provided; structured and uncomfortable. Attitude was to be kept perky and bright, and lord knew that could be hard to keep up, what with what went on in this house. Worst of all were the daily reports after the children had been put to bed. They were made in person, and he would sit there behind his desk and stare at you like a parasite under a microscope; fascinated or vaguely disgusted by turns as you described your charges' day as if you were running through a scientific paper. He creeped her the fuck out.

Two surged up, took a deep breath, and threw himself under the water. Maria swore under her breath and scrambled for the stopwatch. She'd have to add a couple of seconds to the end for accuracy. Not that seconds ought to have meant that much when he was staying down there for ten minutes or more. He was pretending he was a sea monster, (“like Number Six!”) playing quite contentedly at the bottom of the tub with a toy pirate ship that he'd attack with his 'tentacles'/fingers.

He'd scared the absolute crap out of her the first time he went under the water and refused to come up. There were no air bubbles and she'd thought he'd already drowned. She'd frantically tried to drag him out and he'd struggled and squirmed, head still firmly underwater. It had been like trying to wrestle a fucking otter, but she'd done it, dragging him out onto the bathmat, half-crying. She'd been prepared to do CPR, but then he'd sat up and _giggled_.

When she'd told Mr. Hargreeves, he'd simply leaned forward in his chair and demanded a full, detailed report, expression showing nothing more than a kind of fascination. _Delighted_ fascination. She'd been instructed not to discourage Two's play, and handed a stopwatch.

Hargreeves' complete lack of concern hadn't kept her heart from pounding each minute she watched a helpless toddler look up at her from underwater and smile. Not until he'd built himself up to over five minutes and it became clear that something different was happening here.

In retrospect his inhuman hand-eye coordination ought to have been a clue, but it was easier to dismiss a little kid throwing you his teddy or ball than it was to watch him seemingly try to drown himself.

He was coming back up for air now, and she hurriedly pressed down on the stopwatch, then held out an open towel for him as she lifted him out of the tub. “Twelve minutes and ten, Number Two!”

“W-w-will Dad be happy?” he asked as she rubbed at his hair, leaning against her, sleepy after his bath. The stammer worried her. Stuttering was a fairly normal developmental issue in young children, but the thing was that he hadn't had it when he was learning to speak. It was more normal for it to be starting to resolve itself by age four; not develop out of nowhere. She worried he wasn't getting what he needed emotionally, but it wasn't like there was much more she could do. It was worse than hopeless to look to the father that didn't see fit to name the children he'd gone out his way to adopt.

Maria smiled for him, sure he could pick up on the tension in her eyes. “I'm sure he will, Two. Now, time for bed!”

 She dressed him in his Pjs and carried him to his bed, tucking him in neatly and brushing his hair gently as she turned to leave.

 “Can I have a s-story?”

 She hated looking at those big dark eyes and having to say no. “I'm sorry, Two, I can't tonight. I'm late for Mr. Hargreeves.”

He looked at her sadly, resigned. “Ok. N-night.”

She smiled gently from the door. “Night night Number Two.”

It wasn't right, she thought. She didn't know how much more of watching these kids grow up like this she could take, but right now she really needed the money. Part of her just didn't like the thought that if she left that'd just be one less person to treat them like children and not experiments.

There seemed to be more and more of the nannies leaving lately, and they were spread thinner than they were used to. Seven's had left, and then her replacement had left, and then Hargreeves had simply requested that Six's (the least trouble of any of the siblings, once you got used to the tentacles) help with Seven. Six's nanny, Constance, hadn't been able to cope with Seven much longer than the rest, and now Five's had gone too.

Two was not adjusting well to not having Maria to himself anymore. Especially since she was mostly helping out with One at the moment, the one child old Hargreeves ever showed any favour. Not that the old man's idea of favouritism meant a lot, but it rankled with the other kids; especially Two.

She'd never say it – she literally, contractually couldn't – but she'd always felt lucky she got assigned Two. Eunice, One's nanny, had had her hand broken by her charge a year ago when he didn't want her to leave the room. He hadn't meant to, and he'd cried and cried when he did it, but Maria was wary of letting One hold onto her too tightly anyway.

Three's nanny Elizabeth was happy – absurdly so. She let Three get away with murder and just laughed, blithely. They all suspected Three had something to do with Elizabeth's strange moments, and so they tried to keep their distance with that one.

Four was...odd, she thought as she walked by his door, watching Sarah close the door behind her and cross herself. She frowned a bit, hoping Sarah didn't show that kind of fear in front of the boy. He often talked about your dead loved ones like they were right in front of you, but it wasn't like he could help it. She hurt for him that he could see it, but someone ought to teach him that people didn't want to hear how their uncle who'd died in a car crash was horrifically mutilated and hovering nearby.

Five could scare the daylights out of you by appearing as if out of nowhere, but the real reason Maria was relieved she didn't get him was because he was scarily precocious, in that way you often saw with child geniuses. An old soul behind a little kid's eyes. His little eyes could be just as derisive as the old man's, and it's the one thing that ever made her wonder if they were related.

If she'd had to pick one of the others, she'd have picked Six. He was a lot like her Two, but quieter, more placid. He had gone through three nannies by the age of three, before Hargreeves had found one who could deal with the tentacles. Once you got used to the weirdness of this house, tentacles were the fucking least of it.

Seven was slightly terrifying to them all. She had such a sweet little face, but she'd been through six nannies by now, and Maria dreaded being the seventh. Things happened around Seven; things you couldn't explain. They were all...strange, but Seven was the one you couldn't help think _meant_ it. The one who looked at you like you were a bug under a magnifying glass.

No, she was very glad she'd gotten her sweet little Two. She imagined sometimes, what he'd be like if he'd gotten adopted by a normal family. More mischievous than he had the nerve to be here, she figured by the gleam he got in his eyes sometimes; the way he giggled when he came close to the arbitrary lines Hargreeves set. More sure of himself, if he didn't have to struggle for every scrap of affirmation that didn't come from what she was allowed to give. He just wanted to love someone, and it just plain killed her some days that she had no way to give him what he needed, even if he did scare the crap out of her at bathtime. He was so _sweet_ , when he was allowed to be.

She steeled herself as she approached Hargreeves' office. He always looked at you like you were dirt under his shoe, but it was worse if you were late, which she was.

He was looking at his notebook as she entered the study, curtsying like it meant anything in today's society. He looked up briefly and curled his lip. “Yes, Ms. Maria?”

“I apologise for being late, Mr. Hargreeves. Number Two achieved twelve minutes and ten seconds tonight.”

She couldn't help but scowl as he rolled his eyes. That was two whole minutes longer than he'd done last time, that had to count for something with this asshole...

“The breath holding is largely useless. You should have been encouraging his ability with projectiles by now...”

“But this is what you wanted –”

“It matters not, Ms. Maria. I need you to have a turn at Number Seven.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. She didn't know what happened to people who tried to care for Number Seven, but she did know they didn't come back. She did know how Seven looked at the people assigned to her care.

“I can't do that, Mr. Hargreeves. Number Two still needs me.”

“I need you to see to Seven more. I think you'll find your contract allows for reassignment. I can, however, allow a significant bonus, if you agree to it.”

Her husband and kid, back home, would appreciate a bonus. She swallowed, and nodded. “Okay.”

Her heart was heavy as she made her way back up the stairs, towards Two's room. He wouldn't take this well. He was sleeping, but she knelt before him and petted his hair gently. “I'm sorry, baby. I'd keep you if I could...” She pressed a kiss into his soft hair, and backed away.

She closed the door behind her with a soft cry she couldn't help, and started to picture the words of goodbye she might need to leave, for her husband; her daughter, scribbling them down on a notepad before the personal phone in her room. She didn't _know_ that's what happened to the girls before her, but she wanted to be ready. She thought of the morning ahead and heaved out a sigh. She'd do her best by this child, like all the others, and she'd be ready. God protect her.

 


End file.
